One Step Down
by Blue-eyesThropp
Summary: Jerome Eugene Morrow was never meant to be one step down on the podium. Rated K for a slightly crude word.


**Author's note: Well hello again! It's been a long time, but I thought I might be able to redeem myself with a little one-shot about Jerome Morrow. I was recently re-watching Gattaca and started to kind of analyze Jerome for my mother. That's how I got the idea for this fanficton. I know that a lot of people are confused as to Jerome's motives, and the psychological aspects of his character are rather complex. This is my theory as to a) why he carried on working with Vincent b)why he does commit suicide at the end and c) why he gave Vincent some of his hair. I suppose they might be a little unorthodox and whacky, but please bear with me. I'm unorthodox and whacky ;-)  
So, I hope you enjoy and would care to leave me a little review.  
Hugs,  
Blue-eyes xxx**

**Summary: Jerome Eugene Morrow was never _meant_ to be one step down on the podium.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Gattaca or any of its characters. But, for the record, I really wish I did. It's a brilliant movie! I only own the words that I write and the ideas that swirl around relentlessly in my head.**

One Step Down

The silver circle lies heavily on my chest as I place the swirl of my hair- Honey Dawn, not Summer Wheat- inside the fold of paper. It hasn't felt as cold, as horribly real since the day Vincent first visited me. I had been drinking that day, and the liquor had clouded my senses. It was hard to remember anything but the, at best, foggiest outlines of our first meeting. What I would always remember, though, no matter how drunk I could get myself, is the harsh, brutal reality of my last medal resting against my sternum.

Since my partnership with Vincent began, though, something changed. With each sachet of piss that became less and less Vodka laced; with every blood sample; nail follicle for skin cell for hair, something changed. I changed. I began to drink and smoke less, until I practically only did so socially, together with Vincent- Jerome, by then. Of course there were times when I would still get inordinately pissed and become awfully sentimental, but I noticed that they became fewer and fewer the more I worked with-or on- Vincent. I even began to wonder whether the depression had been a cruel side effect of my daily Vodka, wine and scotch cocktail.

For the first time in my life, I had made a friend. A real friend, one who did not base his affections on my genetic superiority or whatever, but one who took me as the crippled, broken, cynical man I was and accepted said man as his friend. Not the swimming champion, not the genius, not the level-headed, cool Mr. Nice Guy I had once been. No, Vincent Freeman met me as the Vaild invalid who needed another man's strength to help him into and out of bed, the man who frequently couldn't think straight through a Bourbon haze, the man who had more than once been found, shaking and sobbing in his bedroom, screaming abuse an invisible other. I remember well how my friends from childhood, other boys of my genetic calibre and my family ignored me after I failed at the swimming competition. I was unsure if anyone even knew what had happened to me afterwards. They only cared about me as long as I was an achiever, golden boy

I stop myself. No, that was not quite true. For, what other side of me could Vincent have liked? Had I not been that man, his plan would never have prevailed. He needed me to be that person. The other side of me was in him, and, perversely, I think I liked it better that way. For years, that side of me had been lurking inside of me, taunting me with his omnipresence and his spirit, teasing me as much as my stupid medal and lifeless lower hemisphere. Once Vincent had taken him from me, I felt freer. Free to be Eugene, finally able to shed the burden of who I had once been like a snakeskin and pass it on to someone else.

Not only had Vincent given me a sense of freedom; he had provided me with short-lived sense of accomplishment. A golden sense of achievement. For the first time in many years, I had managed something worthy of being praised. I had helped Vincent overcome the shackles that his genetic disposition had laid upon him. And, for brief, beautifully insane moment, he was me. In name- Jerome, the sacred name- body and spirit. Once Vincent's teeth had been straightened, his height adjusted and his hair died, I saw myself in him.

Once, I told Vincent that I no longer recognized him. It was true. I no longer recognized Vincent. In his contact lens enhanced eyes, I saw Jerome. I saw myself, a reflection or projection, no matter. He was me. What was more; I lived in him, through him; with him. He helped me upkeep the lifestyle I could have provided for myself, he pursued a career I might have. Even Gattaca, an organization that employed only the most supreme of the highest genetic classes, accepted him. I became so used to having him around, seeing him finally live the life he deserved that the thought of him one day leaving me escaped me all too soon.

But the day had come. Only a few hours ago, it had hit me with ferocious force and impact as Jerome assisted me out of bed and into my clothes in the early hours of the day. He had removed his lenses for the night and was wearing his old square glasses, pushed much too far up the bridge of his nose, the way he wore them when I met him. The way _Vincent_ wore them. As I looked at him, the two people seemed to merge and separate before my eyes, and I realized there and then…

My hand glides up to the red, white and blue striped band lying across my chest like a noose and absentmindedly slips it off over my head. I turn the medal around in my palms, regarding it for a long time in the darkness of the metal cuboid posing as my house. The number 2 is etched into one side of the argent circle, a little swimmer crawling through the water into the other. To anyone else, the little silver man would look like a winner, his arms perfectly arched, reaching out of the water. But, from the many gold medals I have won, I know that the little aureate swimmer's arms are just a little more arched, reaching out just a tad further than his inferior competitor's, the latter missing that perceived excellence by just a second, a mere millimetre. He is perfect, but not perfect enough.

I thrust the medal into my trouser pocket, and my mind replays my thoughts of the morning to me. With my body, Vincent accomplished more than I ever did. He, who had never had the disposition to strength and greatness, had reached it, whereas I never had, and was stuck, day after day, reminded of the failure that I was and always would be. As I close the envelope containing the essence of my being; the one thing that made me in any way golden, the one thing I could and wanted to be remembered by, a wave of a well-known feeling crashes over me. I feel my heart begin to pound in my chest and my eyes grow damp with the realization of the fact that, once again, I am inferior. For several weeks now, as I watched Vincent take my body and give it its predestined life, I had been able to suppress the knowledge that it was not I living out my promised fate. Now that Vincent is leaving, taking Jerome with him, I can no longer deny it. And to make matters worse: I feel second-best to myself. Even my old self beat me in the end. No matter how hard I might try to cheat myself into gold, I know in my heart of hearts that I will always be silver.

Jerome Morrow, although it was never meant to be, would always be one step down on the podium.

**Author's Note: Sorry if there's an awkward time skip between past and present here. The retold events are, of course, meant to be past and the current events present, but a couple of errors did occur while I was writing. I think I've edited them all out, but you never know... **  
**-Blue-eyes xxx**


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